He woke too early—probably midnight. The house was still, silver moonlight leaking through the shutters. His father's snoring drifted from the next room. Vael lay there, staring at the beams overhead, the beam of light replaying in his mind.
He closed his eyes.
Sleep took him again.
He woke a second time. Still early—pre-dawn gray. The snoring continued. He turned over, buried his face in the pillow, and drifted off once more.
This time it held him.
When he finally stirred, sunlight poured in harsh golden bars. Birds chattered. The house felt empty.
He bolted upright. Too late.
He ran outside barefoot. The cart was gone. The cows stood placid in their pen.
His mother stepped from the kitchen doorway, wiping flour-dusted hands on her apron.
"You're up at last, sleepyhead."
"Father… already left for market?"
She nodded. "Before first light. Didn't want to wake you."
"But—"
"We heard you stirring last night," she said gently. "Several times. Tossing, getting up, lying down. Your father said, 'Let the boy rest. He's had strange dreams.' So we let you sleep."
Vael blinked.
How did they know I woke up late at night?
He hadn't made a sound. With infinite stealth, senses sharp enough to hear a mouse three fields away, he had moved like a ghost. Like a ninja.
Skills are infinite. I was like a ninja. Just how??
He stared at the bowl of porridge she set before him.
Anyway… after all, he's my dad.
Parents had their own magic—no system could quantify it. The kind that knew when you were awake even if you held your breath.
Vael let out a small, helpless huff of laughter.
His mother glanced over. "Something funny?"
He shook his head, hiding a smile behind a spoonful of porridge. "No. Just… thinking how good this tastes."
She smiled and went back to her dough.
He finished breakfast, then stood.
"I'll milk the cows now."
She nodded. "And when you're done, you can go to market if you like. Your father might appreciate the company on the way back."
Vael paused at the door.
The cows greeted him with lazy moos.
He looked toward the road one last time.
Then he turned back to the house.
Not today.
The beam, the prophecy, the new chosen one—they could wait.
He stepped inside.
His mother looked up, surprised.
"Milking done already?"
"Not yet," he said, rolling up his sleeves. "I'll do it after. Let me help you first."
She raised an eyebrow, smiling. "You? In the kitchen? You sure you didn't hit your head last night?"
Vael chuckled. "I'm full of surprises today."
He moved to the vegetables, knife in hand, peeling carrots with quiet precision.
For a while there was only the comfortable rhythm: knife on wood, dough thumping against table, chickens clucking outside.
No prophecies. No distant heroes.
Just carrots, bread, and the warm smell of yeast.
His mother spoke softly after a bit.
"You don't have to stay. If you want to go to market…"
Vael shook his head, not looking up.
"I'd rather be here."
She reached over, brushed flour from his hair the way she always did.
"Well then," she said gently, "stay. The cows can wait. And so can the world."
Vael felt something loosen inside him—something knotted since the beam fell.
He finished the carrots, moved to the onions, and let the morning stretch on in peaceful silence.
Years continued to pass in their quiet, unhurried rhythm. Vael turned twenty-one, then twenty-two, his life settling into the steady cadence of seasons: planting in spring, harvesting in autumn, mending in winter, resting—rarely—in summer. The farm flourished under his careful, almost effortless touch. Neighbors began to whisper that the young man from the hill farm had "lucky hands," though none suspected the truth behind it.
The beam of light from years earlier had long faded from village gossip. A new hero had been summoned that night—Raymond, a young man barely older than Vael now, pulled from some distant world and thrust into legend. He had quickly gathered a small but loyal team of five: a sharp-tongued mage, a stoic shield-bearer, a nimble archer, a healer with gentle hands, and a boisterous warrior who laughed louder than thunder. They roamed the kingdom, clearing monster nests, closing rifts, leveling up in the way heroes must.
Vael heard the stories in passing—market chatter, travelers at the inn—but he never asked questions. He simply nodded, bought his flour and salt, and returned home.
One crisp autumn afternoon, however, fate decided to brush closer.
Vael and his father had walked to the upper river bend—a half-day's trek from the farm—for a rare fishing trip. The water was clear and deep here, the kind that hid fat trout and the occasional silver carp. His father carried the rods; Vael carried the basket and a small sack of bait. They spoke little, content in the silence of men who had worked side by side for years.
They settled on the flat rocks near the bank, lines cast, the current murmuring softly.
Miles away—but not far enough—the hero Raymond and his party were hunting in the same forested valley. They had tracked reports of a high-level demon sighting: something powerful, radiating underworld aura. Leveling up required stronger prey these days; the weaker monsters no longer gave worthwhile experience.
They found it.
Or rather—it found them.
Aamon Dragneel.
Third in command during Vael's old life as the Dark Sovereign. Underworld prince by blood, dragon lineage by curse, friend to Gruk in the way only two misfits can be friends—through shared incompetence and stubborn loyalty. Aamon had survived the final battle by fleeing into the deep rifts, licking wounds, waiting.
Today, he appeared in his human guise: tall and strikingly handsome, with sharp aristocratic features, long silver-white hair tied loosely at the nape of his neck, and crimson eyes that seemed to hold the glow of dying embers. His skin was pale, almost luminous; his black coat and fitted attire carried subtle infernal embroidery that shimmered when light struck it. He looked like a noble wandering the wilderness—attractive enough to turn heads in any tavern, dangerous enough that no one would dare approach.
He was lounging on a scorched log in a small clearing, reading an old, tattered book, when Raymond's team crested the ridge.
Aamon looked up, mildly surprised.
"I'm not here to fight," he said calmly, closing the book with a soft snap. His voice was smooth, cultured, carrying a faint echo of ancient courts. "I'm just… existing."
Raymond—young, earnest, still burning with the fire of someone newly summoned—stepped forward, sword half-drawn.
"You're a demon. High-tier. The people fear you."
Aamon sighed, brushing a strand of silver hair behind his ear.
"The people fear taxes more. Leave me be."
The mage in Raymond's party whispered a spell. A detection rune flared.
"Level 85," she breathed. "Underworld prince signature. Threat assessment: catastrophic."
Aamon pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Really? I just wanted to finish this chapter."
The warrior laughed.
"Then finish it after we level up!"
Combat began—unwilling on one side, unavoidable on the other.
Aamon dodged the first volley of arrows with effortless grace, conjuring a thin barrier of black flame to deflect a fireball. He moved like a dancer who had grown bored of the routine—every step precise, every gesture economical. He blocked, parried, retreated a few paces each time, clearly hoping they would tire or lose interest.
Inside his mind, however, a familiar irritation bubbled up.
All because of Gruk, that bastard.
He sidestepped another spell, crimson eyes narrowing.
He sent me to collect embroidery from the countryside. Embroidery. He could have sent anyone—literally anyone. Why me?
Aamon parried a sword strike with the flat of his palm, sending the warrior stumbling back.
"Aamon, you're the only one with taste," he said. "You'll know good thread when you see it."
Aamon blocked an ice shard with a lazy flick of his wrist.
Good thread. I'm an underworld prince, not a seamstress.
A fireball sailed past his ear, singeing a few silver strands.
If I die here, I swear I will haunt that idiot for eternity.
One of Raymond's fireballs went wide, scorching a tree that toppled toward the river path.
Vael moved without thinking.
Infinite speed. Infinite strength.
He caught the burning trunk mid-fall, muscles barely straining, and set it gently aside.
The motion was so fast, so casual, that for a heartbeat no one noticed.
Then Raymond's archer spotted him.
"Hey! Civilians! Get back!"
The archer's warning came too late.
The arrow that had missed Aamon continued its flight—straight toward the riverbank.
Vael heard the sharp hiss of fletching.
He spun around.
The arrow struck his father square in the chest.
A wet, choking gasp escaped the older man. His fishing rod clattered to the rocks. He staggered, eyes wide with shock, hand clutching the shaft embedded just below his collarbone.
"Dad—!"
Vael lunged forward, catching his father before he could fall. The man's weight sagged against him, warm blood already soaking through his shirt.
Infinite healing. Infinite magic. He could fix this—he knew he could.
But Aamon had already vanished into a rift of shadow the instant the arrow missed, leaving only a faint curl of brimstone-scented smoke behind. The demon prince had not seen Vael's face clearly, had not recognized the tall young man on the riverbank. To Aamon, it had been just another coincidence in a long life of them.
The heroes were already rushing down the slope, weapons drawn, shouting.
"Demon's escaped! Protect the civilians!"
"Get them clear—now!"
They thought Vael and his father were innocent bystanders caught in the crossfire. They were coming to help.
Raymond skidded to a stop first, sword half-raised.
"Hold still—we've got a healer!"
The healer pushed forward, hands glowing with soft white light.
Vael's mind screamed.
If he healed his father now—golden power pouring from his palms, the wound closing in seconds—they would see. They would know. The infinite strength he had hidden for twenty-two years would be exposed. The quiet farm life, his mother waiting at home, everything he had chosen would collapse.
He could end the entire misunderstanding in a heartbeat. One thought, and the heroes would be flung back like leaves in a storm. One gesture, and the arrow would vanish, the wound sealed, his father breathing again.
But not without consequences.
Not without questions.
Not without the world crashing in.
"Dad… hold on," Vael whispered, voice cracking.
His father's hand gripped his arm weakly. Blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth.
"Vael… what… what are you…?"
The healer reached them.
"Let me see—move your hands!"
Vael's palms pressed harder against the wound, trying to slow the flow with pressure alone. No magic. No light. Just human desperation.
The arrow had pierced deep, nicking an artery. Blood poured faster than any normal hands could staunch.
The healer knelt, hands hovering.
"Hold him steady—I need to—"
It was already too late.
The light left his father's eyes.
Vael stared down at the still face, the blood-soaked shirt, the fishing rod lying broken beside them.
Silence crashed over the valley.
The heroes froze. The healer's glowing hands faltered. Raymond lowered his sword slowly.
Vael did not move.
He simply held his father's body, forehead resting against the cooling brow.
The arrow had come from the archer's bow—meant for a demon who had already fled, taken by a father who had only wanted to fish with his son.
The healer's voice was small.
"I… I'm sorry. It was too fast. The artery—"
Vael did not look up.
The voice—soft, gentle, laced with regret—cut deeper than the arrow ever could.
It was her voice.
Elara.
The same cadence, the same quiet compassion that had once soothed his battle wounds under starlight, that had scolded him for recklessness, that had whispered love in the dark of their bedroom. The healer standing before him now carried the exact same timbre, the same timbre that had once been home in his second life.
The irony was cruel.
He had lost her once to the slow turn of decades.
Now fate had brought her echo back—only to stand helpless while his father bled out in his arms.
Pain bloomed in his chest—not from any wound, but from the sheer weight of memory colliding with the present. He could not raise his head. Could not meet those eyes that were hers and yet not hers. Could not bear to see the face that had once smiled at him across breakfast tables, now looking down at him with the pity of a stranger.
He simply held his father tighter.
The body in his arms was already cooling.
Blood soaked his shirt, warm at first, then sticky, then cold.
Vael pressed his forehead to his father's shoulder, eyes squeezed shut.
He did not cry.
There were no tears left after three lifetimes.
Only silence.
And the infinite power inside him—silent, useless, mocking.
The heroes stood frozen around him. Raymond's sword hung limp at his side. The mage's hands trembled mid-spell. The archer stared at the arrow still jutting from the dead man's chest—her arrow—and looked like she might be sick.
The healer—Elara's echo—knelt slowly beside Vael.
She reached out, hesitant.
"Please… let me—"
Vael shook his head once. Sharp. Final.
"No."
His voice was low, hoarse, barely audible.
She withdrew her hand.
Raymond swallowed.
"We didn't mean for this. The demon—"
"Leave."
The word carried no anger. No threat. Just exhaustion. A man who had buried too many people he loved.
The party backed away slowly, faces pale, guilt written across every line.
The healer lingered longest—eyes wide, searching his face as if trying to understand something she could not name.
Then she too turned and followed the others up the ridge.
Vael remained kneeling on the riverbank, holding his father's body, until the sun dipped low and the valley grew cold.
Only when the last echoes of their footsteps faded did he move.
He lifted the body in his arms—gentle, careful, as if afraid to break something already broken.
He walked home.
The farm appeared over the rise at dusk.
His mother stepped out onto the porch, wiping her hands on her apron, smiling at first.
Then she saw him.
She saw the blood.
She saw the lifeless form in his arms.
The smile died.
She ran.
Vael met her halfway.
He laid his father down gently on the grass.
His mother dropped to her knees beside them, hands shaking, touching the cold face, the bloodied shirt.
"No," she whispered. "No, no, no…"
Vael knelt too.
He had no words.
Only silence.
And the infinite power inside him—useless, silent, mocking.
His mother clutched the body, rocking slowly, tears falling onto the stained cloth.
Vael stared at the arrow still embedded in his father's chest.
Then—slowly—he reached out.
Not with magic.
With his fingers.
He pulled the arrow free.
Blood welled again, but there was no one left to bleed.
He set the shaft aside.
His mother looked up at him, eyes red, searching.
"Vael… what happened?"
He met her gaze for the first time.
His voice was quiet.
"An accident."
It was the truth.
And it was the only truth he could give her.
The rest—the infinite system, the three lifetimes, the hero he had been, the villain he had become, the healer who had once been his wife—remained locked inside.
He could not burden her with it.
Not now.
Not ever.